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Overview

This non-fiction, narrative poetic book will serve to educate everyone on the moments in which you think you are doing the right thing, while it is really the opposite. This book contains many elements irresistible to readers: wrongdoings, pain, despair, regret, guilt, and workable grief.

Read an Excerpt

Memories of Broken Souls

AuthorHouse

What to write: that night, my mind went blind. For a blank sheet of paper proved my thoughts darker, darker than a blank sheet of paper in a hollow, dark room, a dark room that became for me a random living room, pushing me to be a dweller. I knew no way to describe my slithering snake's actions and the kisses of hell's flame.

Fallen Ones

As dawn rose, coughing blood blew out, and cells decomposed. I, the Octa, or the circle of eight characters who carried my own memories and seven other characters', remained confused by life as I tasted its sorrow, and time passed by.

While grieving for unfair death, I made my way into the cemetery. I carried the world's disgrace.

Feeling that the world was colder than fear itself in a sense, I hoped to show this existence: that killing each other is no better than just action like a rightful penalty, and, being a messenger, I should start over.

Commotion Jaws

Octa remained confused by the torments of his mind and stood still; he was being used by all who pretended to be.

All nights and days, he conquered his thought to decipher and escape while he was lost in a maze. But he remained stuck: a broken tape.

Believing that love was true, Octa sensed he was being betrayed. This led him astray to an illusion of a universe that he conveyed. He then remained in a dark hallway of commotion.

Watery Grave

I sparkle and burst into flame. The winds leave no mark of my ashes to claim.

While losing the linchpin of my body, resulting in vaporization, disarray engulfs my land until I'm decomposed from composition. I should be unborn.

This world fills me with remorse. Corpses over corpses honor the dead's tears at the tomb with no guide in which I reside.

Dishonor leads me lost and astray, and this world is a wasteland — a watery death of disarray.

Solemn

As I noticed justice had been killed and left my family with no morrow, like a woman with no limbs, my heart dipped into sorrow. A flood of blood: I was fulfilled. The wages of their sweat were not awarded to them; they had lost the bet of their lives against Satan. Their boss refused to pay their monthly income.

I endured pains like chewing glass with no end in a goat's jaws. In the toothed bill of the shrike, a small black bird, my breath of heavy sea, it heaved.

My torments became a wind for my mind. My inner doors were dark skies. While all my past came in a blast of wind, I lived the rest of my life upon woeful melodies.

Still, persecution was a dead body on a bench that faced me. Its smell went in circles around me; the dead body did not stay in place.

I could not control these memories: I had a sensation of sinking in a deep hole, which brought many awful pains and flashbacks that I couldn't contain. I was an abandoned, old boat with cracks and holes of rotting woods on a cursed island; justice was undetected.

My thoughts and concerns uttered a long cry, like cats giving birth at night; this was my lungs' last rhyme to unbound freedom. Still, my actions came from boredom. Until a few relatives died, they remained neglected on the surface of this dirt.

Mournful Soul in Regret

Octa rode on the line of his life in a cart, and memories of hers haunted him, like he owed the ghosts of his heart.

All she had done for him was bloodshed on a killer's hands, and the ways she held him on her breast were snows of fallen leaves. Years of tears melted over his cheeks. His heart was made of snow. He fell into pieces. Broken glass deepened inside his bones. His flesh dried. His face was smudged eyeliner.

He bled as wounded skin from blades. He tightly held his chest back. He dove into a sad state of his dark cave.

His tongue whispered, "Grandma" every day, but he couldn't find her.

He turned to be apart from love and naked in the middle of an abyss, while he lingered, a day could've come to perceive the gale of her kiss. But those cruel men burned her to ashen ashes.Why, so suddenly, did life separate her from me? he wondered.

He was into her like a meth addict. He led his heart on false hope: oft he would see her returning from the journey that her soul went through.

His eyes were heavy rains of a sky, as if he were hit by a drunk driver, causing his entire foreskin to obliterate.

Oceans reminded him of her hair. The sky: of her smile. The gale: of her wise words. The heat of the dawn: of her love. The coffin: of the day she was gone.

Aha, Aha

He drove spikes into my heart. My father smacked my older siblings with his hands and with sticks. He pulled their heads against the walls, like he was breaking coconuts. But our mother gave up on us. She watched them being beaten up as thieves.

He drove spikes into my heart. My father took their freedom like they were imprisoned parrots. They had sorrow as a best friend and the house as a worst fiend. But our mother gave up on us. She watched them being beaten up as thieves.

He drove spikes into my heart. At dawn, I headed to school; he confronted me to walk in the wet grasses and weeds. He rushed against me with rage when I sneered and said, "No." Before he hit me, my right hand rested under his neck, and I pushed him away from me, thrice. He backed up. He threw rocks at me. My eyes changed as I looked back at my two little sisters next to me. I screamed at them, "Back up." He went inside. He came out. "Aha, aha," he said. "Don't come back in this house." But our mother gave up on us. She watched them being beaten up as thieves.

On Your Hill I Want to Dwell

Shall not I dwell on your hill? The prayers to free me from going through changes remain un- answered by God. This is fun for the people who wish to gloat over me and to glue me against the spider web. My strength and faith are all ebbed away like the water of a tide, like the climax of a man's life and like decay. Those people hate me without cause, Lord, and pelt on my route vigorous blows. My walls and roofs are a carbine that is assailed with missiles and winds.

Long, You Do Have to Bleed Me

Wake up. Tell me how long you have to rejoice my fall. You rob the royalty of dignity, but you still come forward to finish me. Sam, my former friend, you tend to grieve me with your mouth's stench.

Wake up. You dig a hole and make stroll in crocodiles, as you make new friends. As you know, you and me have our own distance, though. I'm still loyal to you without flaw, but you repay me with rocks and galls. You place on my road, the gangster mob.

Keep me in mind. My old friend, shall I keep calling you my brother? My cologne will follow you like stench of an o- pen grave, and surely your cloak to ruin me will be rewarded. No doubt.

Wake up. Behind this mob, you stand still. But I track you by your shame. Walk toward me, Sam. Show me your face before this army starts war for your money. You mourn and weep and bow. You know the awaiting of the death's jaws.

Wake up. Brother Sam, it's over. You make me run away in the street for thirty minutes, but we finally meet along, as I veer in the corner of a house: you tremble, you sing to me, you mouse me through your teeth as though royalty lightens on your torch, but the gnashes of my teeth blot my ears to give you divided attention. Ten seconds later, a bruise remains on his temple as blood sips down, and I run away.

White Man, My Bones Are Crystal-Clear

It bleeds. It has to stop. You contend with me as you dance in glee, gossip stranger of the morning, whom I bump into, entangle me with cord. You make my blood a sandy lake and my flesh a dry land until my bones whiten.

It bleeds. It has to stop. You place me on the top of the yellow grasses and watch me wither from the sun. Is my will of refusing friendship so I don't have to attract hardship a reason to hate me?

It bleeds. It has to stop. Though I walk away from him, though I put a line between him and me at work, his voice prepares a net of spikes and wall of bars on my daily road; this stranger, determines to rise against me, the dust of Egypt before the wind, and finds a base of enemies against me.

It bleeds. It has to stop. You daily seek for my life, but I pretend you never plot my ruin in the pleasure of your depth. My isolated character repulses you to stay away from me, as a sheep from a lion, but the dregs of your action blind you. Though I am peaceful, you turn to make me blue, to cover me with sand, to darken and slip my path; but you didn't foresee that ending.

It bleeds. It has to stop. On my way in, you jostled and shoved me; you awaited my stand to kick my skull, but you didn't get it. You awaited my stand to kick my skull, but now you do get it. The constant pit in your stomach swallows you as I rest a cold blade under your neck, and your eyes turn into watery lands, as though my eyes are the darkest clouds of my temper.

The Cigarettes from My Nose

I must stop. This childhood habit buries my mind with fear. I become a rabbit running away from the sneer and snare of my own mood. Daring to use smoke as a remedy when a person bleeds from the flood of the vocal volcano —his or her capability to not withstand a cloudy day. My heart sings in anger. My mind hopes to turn into a hero, but my left hand holds onto a cigarette.

I stop. Leaving the past behind me holds back my mind. I tremble every night. I huddle in corners. I go in circles. I stop the smoking. But I haven't stopped thinking about craving smoke. The smokes travel into me; they are second and minute in clocks. My bed wets of sweat at night. My mind drowns from profuse frights. The blood of my body boils. The skeleton under my skin quakes. A decade of not having something on my lips leads me to insanity.

I'm About to Go Down

Help me. No one knows the gleefully horrible life I lived yesterday is not the one I live today.

I stop returning fire against fire. I live on peace instead of dire disaster. I smile and sit away from people, but I still have a cloudy day.

I kick the chairs in my house. I repulse my spouse. I hold my head. It becomes a waterbed.

My tongue starts to snake out. My neck moves like a turkey's. I sneer. I cheer.

"You're not a bad man," I think."It's just people who are naught." But the door is the eyes of the law. I go out with agony to befall someone's flaw.

Silent Memory

That illusive tumultuous night became tough as it compelled me to sit still on a broken bench, on which I angrily strove to fight. My broken thoughts wore out just like every inch of a farmer's hands in an excruciating drought for crowned lands.

Sorrows thronged with penance, the waves of my eyes, and bereaved me in the withered pasture's entrance. They blotted my heart.

While I stared at those doors that had infinite doors behind them, wars of silence slowly drowned my heart with darkness. I could no longer contain the memory of that night: pouring blood of that kid was all over my hands. The skin of Sam's sister marked with machete after getting beaten: Skin wide opened. Blood bathed the street. Guts dirtied the road.

I couldn't maintain her justice as I arrived late to the murder scene. "What has your bro done?" I cried, "For his foes murdered you."

As I sweated, I had been swallowed by a shaft. I'd drowned in a dark closet of a boat with no life raft.

I became a spoiling, rotting apple that endured falls, affecting my inner door.

My mind turned out to be a wall behind a lot of walls, and my body's temperature melted my bones.

Feeling hit by stress, stress that makes of my life a mess, people instill in my mind that I'm responsible for lying down alone and helpless, like the homeless person who ignores daily bread on the ground and a mother who abandons a child.

People discern me smiling all day in a dawn that rises in May. Still, never think of all the nights' tears.

My flame of faith becomes a weak torch. Surrendering surrounds my mind on a field of war, of a small forest; it shapes my inner door. All I have are tears of a fall, regrets of having been born to be played and bounced around like a ball.

Still, I'm being plagued by injustice, Injustice of Haiti's communities — A place that I linger upon, my tribulation at an end.

I Committed Suicide

I stretched out weary hands. Melisa, who considered me like a big brother, quickly ran away from me. My heart writhed unto me; I longed for a swig of water. Noise danced, rumbled inside me in thunder. But the whirlwind heard the swoosh of the knife as my eyes blushed. But why didn't I die instead?

I placed the knife back in my rusty pocket. I recalled she told me, "No, don't kill yourself." "Stress is like chess; either you play it, or it plays you." Vinegar boiled my blood, though my bones were hit by the daily rocks I ate. My suicidal act was lured with its bait. But why didn't I die instead?

Swarms of flies consumed the skin of my throat. My fleshes were allotted to stresses atop a fire. My fur was tumbleweed and chaff before the wind blew. My mouth became a thirsty land. I turned blue. I cried sandy tears. My ivory screams were smokes. But why didn't I die instead?

"Christo," I heard as I reconsidered. "Melisa bloodily committed suicide," an old man vociferated. I fell to my knees. The blood in my head was a rolling sea. Reconsideration ebbed away. I was a zebra running away from a lion's teeth, but in the lake, caught by the crocodile's jaws of death. My muscles fainted in decay. My soul ran away from a fowler's snare. Wails went higher than an eagle's wings. But why didn't I die instead?

Within Time This Old, Honest Friend

Glasses of tears, his white eyes cover. His inner door's stress, shaves the coconut of his body, and his hairs turn into sheep's fur.

In seconds, the mirror of his face changes, but within time, it decays until his smile goes away. Inside his head, a shoreline caves in his blue bed.

Tom's forehead beads with profuse sweat; his inner door recedes. He traps himself in a net — his conscience indented the shorelines of his skull. The stench of the people's graves that he created, slowly takes him to the heat waves, pulling Tom against the wavelike seas.

Old webs trap his mind unto the past road, while the present buries the scene that paves with blood, sifts betwixt the pile of his stomach's spleen.

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